


Kiss with a Fist

by Charley_pie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blackhawk - Freeform, Budapest, Clint needs to stop getting shot, F/M, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charley_pie/pseuds/Charley_pie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s violence that defines their relationship. </p>
<p>Violence is what started it and, unless something significant happens, it’s probably going to be violence that ends it. </p>
<p>That’s just the nature of their work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss with a Fist

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Avengers fanfic and I just had to start with one of my favourite couples. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Note to readers: Constructive criticism is actively encouraged by this author! 
> 
> Warnings for language (not much but y’know, some) and ‘adult situations’. Not smut, just pre-smut and a *lot* of insinuations. It’s Tasha and Clint; what were you expecting? 
> 
> Title and quote at the beginning are by the wonderful _Florence + the Machine_.
> 
> UPDATED 26-12-12: Originally posted without input from my wonderful beta _RebelPaisley_ but I wanted to change a few bits they commented on (because they are awesome and always manage to pick up on my silly mistakes!). Title changed from "One Bright Moment" to what I was going to call it originally.

_I don't want no future; I don't need no past_  
 _One bright moment_  
 _Is all I ask_

It’s violence that defines their relationship.

Violence is what started it and, unless something significant happens, it’s probably going to be violence that ends it.

That’s just the nature of their work.

_XxX_

Clint still remembers the first time they met. Every tiny, intimate detail is forever etched onto his mind. The snow; the alley; the blood.

He’d been sent to kill her.

Black Widow had been on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar for a number of years, a watched threat but, as bad as her actions were, she’d never made their hit list. Not until the Bulgaria debacle that had left two agents dead, official secrets stolen and the assassin top of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most wanted.

In response Fury bought in Agent Barton who, despite having worked for the organisation for less than four years, was already their best agent. They wanted Black Widow dead and Hawkeye was the man to do it.

It was in Prague, in the dead of winter, when they finally came face-to-face.

She was working a job – what exactly Clint didn’t know and wasn’t interested – but he’d followed her from the Old Town across the Charles Bridge through the narrow, snow-covered streets towards the castle. It’s a Thursday, noon but the sun’s barely visible in the overcast grey sky, the clouds heavy with the threat of more snow. Clint’s breath puffs out in front of him in the frigid air and he sticks his hands deeper into the pockets of the large coat he’s wearing, in part against the cold and in part to hide the weapons concealed about his person. His quiver and bow are carefully packed away in the bag slung over his shoulder.

If he’d had time, he’d have liked to stop and marvel at the gothic architecture that stood out in stark contrast to the pure white of the newly-fallen snow. But instead his eyes are focused on the woman he’s tailing. He’d spotted the Black Widow from one of his rooftop perches. Even at a distance she was unmistakable; red hair a bright beacon against the dullness of the city, her knee-length black coat perfectly tailored to accentuate her figure.

As they near the castle the crowds thicken with visitors braving the Czech winter to see the ancient structure. Clint has to quicken his step to keep his target in sight amongst the busy throng. Soon they’re moving away from the tourist centre, the streets becoming emptier. The Widow doesn’t give any sign she’s aware of being followed, her pace does not speed up and she doesn’t glance over her shoulder once, but Clint’s on edge. It’s too easy. And when things seem too easy that’s normally when all hell breaks loose in Clint’s not-inconsiderable experience.

Ahead of him, the Widow ducks into an alleyway and the sensation in Clint’s gut solidifies. Running on pure instinct, he pauses long enough to determine that the street is deserted, ditch the coat and retrieve his weapons from the bag. Slinging the quiver onto his back, he has an arrow notched and ready in a blink of the eye.

Every sense on high alert, he edges his way slowly along the wall to the mouth of the alley, ears straining to hear the slightest sound. Taking a deep breath he swings around the corner, bow raised, expecting a fight that doesn’t come.

The narrow path is deserted, the snow thick and untouched, banking up against the wall that blocks the other end. There should have been no way out. She should have been there. There should-

Clint barely has time to react as a knife comes flying towards him, Black Widow dropping into his vision from thin air. He spins out of the dagger’s path, firing off a shot but she’s already diving to the side, rolling and returning to her feet in one smooth, fluid motion. Clint has another arrow notched in a second but the Widow kicks it from his grasp and then they’re in too close. He strikes out using all the weapons at his disposal; hands, feet and bow. They weave a complicated dance of offence and defence, of punches and blocks and counters, landing as many blows as they deflect. It’s fast and messy, leaving barely any time to think, forcing him to rely on instinct and intuition. Another swift kick from the Widow catches him solidly in the ribs, but the adrenaline pumping through his body deadens the shock.

She’s a good fighter, making up for what she lacks in brute strength with speed and fluidity, and a grace that can only have come from her years as a ballet dancer. Clint’s impressed in spite of himself, but as good as she is he’s better. He lands a couple of blows in quick succession, the feeling of flesh beneath his fists, pushing her back, gaining the upper hand and some space and suddenly she’s on the ground, her blood vivid red against the white of the snow, and Clint is staring down an arrow aimed at her throat.  

He’d read her file, memorised it. He knows she’s a killer, he knows the number of innocent people that have died at her hand, he knows she was dangerous. He has his orders.

He hadn’t realised how young she is.

For a long time there’s just stillness, the noise of the city merely background, muffled by the winter blanket lying thick on the ground, and their breath hanging in pale clouds between them. A few flakes of snow fall, landing gently on Clint’s face and hands; cold caresses that quickly melt away into nothing. And there were her eyes, bright and green and without a trace of fear, only… resignation? Acceptance of the death that will surely come at a S.H.I.E.L.D agent’s hand, at _Clint’s_ hand.

He can’t do it. The more he looks the more he sees a woman not so different from himself, pushed down a path she had no control over, and that acceptance in her eyes, almost welcoming her end… Clint knows what that feels like.

“What are you waiting for?”

The harshness of her voice brings him back to himself and he refocuses on her face, bruised and bloodied but still beautiful.

“Come on, mудак. Do it.” There’s no anger there, no trembling, just cold indifference.  

He can feel the tautness of the bowstring, the pull of the arrow against his fingers, whispering to be released. Muscles tense, arms locked in place, and the fletching lightly brushing his cheek. All he has to do is let go and the world will be a safer place. Another mission complete.

He releases the tension from the string, returning the arrow to the quiver on his back in one smooth, well-practiced motion and lets the bow fall down to his side.

“No,” he’d said, throat strangely tight and he sees her eyes widen a fraction in surprise, the only sign of emotion she showed.

Slowly, warily, she gets to her feet, wiping a hand across her lips, fingers coming away red with blood. “Why?” she asks finally.

“To make you an offer you really shouldn’t refuse.” She doesn’t react, just waits patiently for him to continue, so he presses on, “Join S.H.I.E.L.D. Work for us.”

The redhead stares at him impassively, but she gets this is a one-time only offer, not to be repeated. Decline, and she signs her own death warrant. Or, _re_ -sign it is probably a more accurate description.

“Why?” she asks again, seeming to know that this deal was _not_ part of Clint’s original mission. He’d been sent to kill her, and now he was operating outside his mission protocols.

Clint shrugs. “You have a specific set of skills; skills S.H.I.E.L.D. could use.”

There’s more to it than that. He watches her carefully, debating the wisdom his next words. _Well, it’s not like he’s known for doing the smart thing_.

He continues, “You’ve killed a lot of people, Чёрная вдова. Some deserved it; many didn’t. And I think you know that. I think that weighs on you. That’s always going to weigh on you; take it from someone who knows. I can’t promise a clean slate – that’s down to you – but I can promise that by working for S.H.I.E.L.D. you’ll change your mark on the world, from a negative one to something positive. You won’t be asked to kill innocents again. You have a chance-” _of redemption_ “-to make a difference”.

She understands.

He knows she’s going to say yes before the words touch her lips. When they do, he holds a hand out to her. A formal “Agent Barton” is his first, real introduction to her.

“Romanoff.” Despite the pain Clint is sure she’s feeling (because _his_ aches are starting to make themselves known to him now too) her voice is clear and unwavering. Ever the professional. She takes his proffered hand in a firm grip, her hand small and cold in his, the blood on her fingers smearing onto his skin as if sealing the bond.

For a time there’s nothing but the two of them, hands clasped, standing in a shadowy alley in Prague with the snow settling around them. Another moment of stillness, his blue eyes locked on her green ones. The Hawk meets the Spider.

And then there’s Coulson’s voice in his ear, breaking the spell as he demands a status report. Clint can hear a tinge behind the brusque professionalism, a hint belying Coulson’s concern.

With a quick glance of apology at Romanoff, he replies to his handler, a grin stealing onto his face, “Hey boss, what’s up?”

“Target neutralised?”

“Not exactly,” he says, tone conversational and cheerful. “There’s been a… change of plan. Widow wants to join us. Can I keep her, boss? Please?”

There’s silence on the other end before Coulson responds carefully, “You sure?” The two words convey a lot of meaning; there is so much at risk here, so much that could go bad, if Clint’s wrong.

He knows he isn’t. “I promise to feed her and everything,” he says by way of reply.

“Okay.” Coulson’s answer is terse, but he trusts his agent’s judgement. He trusts _Clint_. “Meet at the rendezvous as planned. I’ll send in the extraction team.”

And just like that it’s over. Mission complete.

Officially this is the only operation Hawkeye has ever failed. At least according to his S.H.I.E.L.D. file.  

Personally, he counts it as his most successful.

_XxX_

The next few months are tough. While S.H.I.E.L.D. recognises the asset they’ve found in Romanoff they don’t trust her. Not for a long time. No matter where she goes the whispers and suspicion follow her everywhere. Everywhere except when she’s with Clint.

Hawkeye is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top agent, the reputation hard-earned and known throughout the organisation. His skill is unquestionable and though his trust is difficult to earn he is fiercely protective of those few he deems worthy of his time. Agents that made negative comments regarding the Black Widow within his earshot would suddenly find objects shot out of their hand by avenging arrows or, if they’d _really_ pissed Clint off, arrows expertly fired to miss their face by a hairsbreadth.

When Coulson bans him from using real arrows (apparently almost killing agents on desk duty is not an appropriate use of his time or resources), Clint switches to sucker ones, the sort children play with, and takes great glee in stalking and scaring the Widow’s critics with them. After all, no one messes with _his_ partner.

After six months the whispering finally stops, in part due to the agents’ lack of desire to mess with Clint and in part due to Romanoff’s successful completion of some high-level missions. If anyone’s surprised by Hawkeye finally finding a partner he can work well with they’re careful not to mention it around the pair. The gossiping may have stopped, but she still remains apart, aloof from everyone.

Everyone, that is, until the night Clint finds her late at night in the gym, beating seven kinds of hell out of a punching bag. He recognises the look in her eyes, haunted and angry. It’s the one he sees in the mirror when his nightmares wake him.

He doesn’t ask about hers because he knows she won’t answer, but instead offers to spar with her. Violence always helps him forget and in Romanoff Clint recognises a kindred spirit.

She’s a good opponent and with the training she’s getting from S.H.I.E.L.D. he knows it won’t be long before she’s better than him. He’s not worried by that; he prefers to carry out his missions from a distance – ever the sniper – while Romanoff likes to be up close and personal. She needs to be a better fighter than him.

It’s the start of a nightly ritual for the two of them, chasing their demons away together. To start with it’s just sparring but as the weeks turn into months a fragile friendship begins to develop. Clint starts revealing details of his past to her, casually with no expectations of reciprocation. He tells her about the orphanage he ran away from, the circus he was trained in, about his brother who betrayed him. Romanoff just listens impassively, giving no sign that she cares but Clint continues regardless.

It’s not until after one particularly brutal mission, where Barton ends up medical (on Coulson’s orders) and is subsequently banned from training, that Romanoff realises just how accustomed she’s become to their late night sparring sessions.

Unable to sleep and thinking to distract the Hawk from his moping, which is his standard reaction to being put on forced R&R, she’d turned up at his quarters armed with a bottle of vodka only to find it empty, no sign of Clint.

She’s heading for the gym ready to yell at him for disobeying orders so soon when she bumps into Coulson.

“Everything okay, Agent Romanoff?” he asks, eyes focusing first on the vodka and then on her face.

She shrugs. “Just looking for Barton, sir. He’s not at home.”

Coulson surveys her for a long moment, as if weighing up some decision. Finally he speaks. “I’d try storage locker ‘C’ on level three,” he tells her before walking away. The assassin’s confused but takes her boss’s advice, finding her way to the storage locker Coulson had indicated.

There’s no one inside. Just an empty room, bare aside from the metal cages containing rifles down one side and a solitary chair propped against the back corner. She’s about to leave, give up the hunt, when she notices the heavy steel air duct running across the ceiling at the back of the room.

A smile stealing onto her face, she bounces from the chair to the top of the cages and raps her knuckles on the duct. “Barton, open up.”

There’s silence before a grate is lifted aside and a head pokes out of it, blue eyes puzzled. “Romanoff?”

“Coulson told me I’d find you here,” she says, answering his unvoiced question. She waves the vodka at him. “I come bearing gifts. You going to let me up?”

Clint doesn’t respond, just ducks his head back into the vent but he leaves the grate open so Romanoff takes that as a yes, hauling herself up into the duct to join him. It’s… surprisingly cosy; Clint having made a bed of sorts out of blankets, a stack of novels and his bow stored neatly on the other side of the hatch where the redhead folds herself neatly into the space.

Clint’s watching her curiously and she waves a hand vaguely to the vent around them; “What’s with the nest, Big Bird?”

Her partner’s face darkens at her teasing. “I like it here,” he says defensively and Romanoff recognises the tone in his voice telling her to back off, so she does; message received. 

“Sorry,” she says softly, wrapping her arms around herself. “I couldn’t sleep,” she suddenly confesses and Clint looks at her sharply but keeps his mouth shut, for once. “I never can after a mission. It’s different when we’re actually working; the nightmares stay away but…” She trails off lamely.

“… They’re always worse when you get back,” Clint finishes for her and Romanoff knows he’s speaking from personal experience. She bites her lip and nods. “There’s a cure for that, y’know,” he adds cheerfully, causing her to look up at him. He winks and nods towards the vodka bottle in her hand. “You going to share?”    

Romanoff’s face breaks into a grin. “Can you handle it? It’s pure Russian.”

Clint snorts and reaches out for the bottle. “You wanna bet? Hand it over, Romanoff.”

She does.

After that night the two of them spend many evenings together in the vents; Clint burrowed into his nest of blankets on one side of the hatchway with Romanoff sitting on the other, legs dangling down through the grate.

Sometimes they’re going through files, completing paperwork or planning their next mission. Other times they read to each other, Romanoff educating Clint with the classics she remembers from her childhood, Pushkin and Tolstoy and Chekov, and Clint responding with his love of modern fiction and fantasy, of Pratchett and Rowling and Sanderson. They draw the line at ‘Twilight’.

Sometimes they talk long into the night, keeping sleep – and their nightmares – at bay, sharing memories of missions gone well and missions gone wrong, of the places they’d travelled and the strangers they’d met (and yes, killed), and the people that they’d loved… and lost.

Sometimes they just sit in comfortable silence, no need to speak; the knowledge of the other person being there enough.

When things are really bad they can be found at a local bar, shooting pool and challenging other off-duty agents to drinking competitions. When Fury bans the competitions after some spectacular losses (all by other people naturally), they’re left with each other. Romanoff can out-drink Clint easily when they’re on the vodka but he has more of a fighting chance when they stick to beer. Not _much_ more of chance, but some. No one else comes close to beating either of them. They are the perfect team.

On the second anniversary of the Prague mission Romanoff tells Clint to call her Natasha. 

_XxX_

They don’t become lovers until Budapest.

It was meant to be a simple mission, to take out an arms dealer known as Gulyás but, as always, simple suddenly became very _very_ complicated – or what Clint later refers to as a complete fuck up – and they find themselves in a derelict warehouse, pinned down behind some old crates by a hail of bullets. They give as good as they get, returning fire until their ammo’s out, quiver and guns empty. All they have left is each other, and possibly Black Widow’s knives if they’re lucky but still, it’s a bad position to be in.

Clint drops down to sit next to Natasha, back pressed against the wood and breathing heavy, a fresh gunshot wound to his thigh and another where a stray bullet has grazed his ribs. Glancing across to the woman next to him he sees Natasha’s face is set, lips pursed and blood running freely from a cut on her temple.

“You okay?” he asks lightly, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” she says curtly, and then adds disapprovingly, “But you’ve gone and got yourself shot _again_. Coulson’s going to have serious words for you when we get back.”

_If they get back_.  

Clint shrugs, grinning. “Had worse. Right now we need to get out of here.”

“You’re telling me,” Natasha replies, a trace of humour in her voice. “So, plan?”

Hawkeye peers warily around the crate, assessing the distance and positions of the shooters and possible exits. His eyes fall on a window on the near wall, broken glass hanging limply from its frame and boxes stacked beneath it. It’s an exit, but there’s no cover between where they are now and there. As he’s contemplating their situation a bullet whizzes past his head, so close he can feel the draught as it cuts through the air, striking the floor and raising a cloud of dust and concrete fragments.

He flings himself back behind the crate as a wave of bullets follows the first. Looking up, he notes that at some point someone had stretched a tarpaulin across one section of the roof, perhaps as an attempt to block up one of the holes in the old tin roof or perhaps to give protection from falling debris, Clint isn’t sure. But judging by the sagging in the centre of it it’s clear it’s been there a while. Long enough to collect dust and rubble from the crumbling building at least.

A plan forms. It’s not smart, or clever, or particularly complicated, but it should get them out of here alive.

“Please tell me you still have a knife or two on you?”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “You actually need to ask?” There’s a smugness to her smile as she hands one over to him.

“Good,” Clint says, testing the blade against his thumb. It’s sharp enough, but then it _is_ Natasha’s. “Now all we need is a distraction.”

His partner frowns at him, eyes narrowing. “What are you planning Barton?”

He ignores her question, instead eyeing up the metal pipe running around the edges of the room. “You reckon your Widow Bites’d be able to transmit some electro-static energy along that?”

Tasha follows his gaze, biting her lip in thought as she considers her wrist-mounted weapons. “Might cause a few sparks. Maybe a bit of noise; nothing spectacular. And it won’t take out any of those guys.”

“It doesn’t need to do,” Clint tells her and she sighs.

“This plan of yours better not get me shot,” she mutters, easing forward to get a better aim at the pipe. “Now?”

“Now,” Clint confirms and she fires her Bites, sending 30,000 volts slamming into the old metal.

As sparks crackle around the room, dancing along the walls and causing the shooters to jump in surprise, Clint uses the momentary distraction break cover and throw the knife with circus-trained precision. It slashes through one of the frayed tarpaulin ropes, the corner flapping free and sending a shower of debris raining down between the gangsters and their position. Gulyás’ men reel back, shielding themselves from the falling rubble.

Using the resulting dust cloud as a shield, Clint grabs Natasha and propels the two of them across the open space before the men can begin firing again. They crash through the window, glass and old wood splintering around them, and hit the floor running, Clint wincing as he takes his weight on his damaged leg. Sprinting as fast as they can, bullets ricocheting off the ground behind them, they dash blindly down the streets of Budapest, taking turns at random in an attempt to lose their pursuers. The increasing number of people on the street means the gunfire is curtailed, but they’re not safe yet. Clint’s limping badly and, although neither of them mentions it, they know he can’t go much further without medical attention.

There’s an abandoned building at the end of the street they’re currently on and Natasha grabs Clint’s arm, pulling him down the side of it and peeling back boards to give them an entrance. Once inside they listen carefully for any sounds of pursuit, but there’s none.

Apparently in the clear for now, the two agents allow themselves to relax just a tiny bit. Moving further into the building they make their way to the second floor and a room that offers a good view of the surrounding area. It’s dank and dusty but it’s secure. Clint sinks down on the floor, his heartbeat thumping in his ears as the blood loss starts to show.

Natasha’s at his side in an instant. “Barton? Barton, can you hear me?”

He struggles to focus on her voice, vision blurring, and he can feel her hands checking him for injuries.

“Fuck,” he hears her breathe and he knows she’s found the gash to his side. “Fuck Barton, you fucking идиот. Can you not go one mission without getting shot?”

There’s anger in her voice but it stems from worry. He’s going to pay for this later, but right now he’s going to black out.

When he comes to it’s evening, the sun a golden orb hanging low over the city and the temperature has dropped by a few degrees. He’s lying on some old newspapers that Natasha’s found from somewhere and his wounds have been dressed, strips of his shirt used as rough bandages. Pushing himself into a sitting position he looks about for his partner and sees her sitting on a box peering out of the badly boarded up window.

“Tasha?”

She turns to him, a small smile playing across her lips, a beam of dying sunlight turning her red hair to flame and Clint feels his stomach clench not-unpleasantly.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty awakes. How are you feeling?” she asks, moving carefully away from the window and towards him, stepping lightly over the broken glass and bits of plaster that litter the floor.

He grunts. “Been better.” There’s a flash of concern in her eyes and he takes her hand, gently pulling her down next to him. “I’m fine, Котёнок,” he reassures her, the nickname earning him a fond punch on the arm. He sits up a little straighter, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. “What’s the situation?” He knows she’ll have scouted out the area while he was unconscious.

Natasha tenses. “Gulyás has got men patrolling the streets around the safe house; I think it’s been compromised. I haven’t been able to get a line through to Coulson yet so we’re on our own, for the time being.”

“Guess we’re stuck here for now then,” Clint says unenthusiastically and Natasha nods, shivering slightly. He notices she’s wearing only a tank top now and figures she must have used both of their shirts to bandage him. He slides an arm around her shoulder and she relaxes into his side, head tucked under his chin, and all he can smell is the coconut of her shampoo mingled with _her_. He is suddenly painfully aware of her body pulled tight against his, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes and the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.

He hasn’t thought of Tasha like this before. Ok, so that’s a lie. He _has_ , he’d just never allowed his feelings to become anything more than a fantasy, never to be acted upon. But here in this dilapidated building in Budapest, the cold autumn night drawing in and no one but the two of them the thoughts force themselves forward, clamouring to be heard, to be listened to, _to be obeyed_.

He shifts slightly, trying to clear his mind and she pulls away, looking up at him with those beautiful green eyes of hers and he can’t resist any more, leaning down to tentatively press his lips to hers. It could be another bad decision, but then Clint still isn’t known for doing the wise thing and he’s willing to take the risk. Even if it’s a damn stupid one.

He’s expecting for her to freeze or pull away, for her to almost certainly hit him, hard. He’s not expecting her to respond to it, to turn into him and deepen the kiss. And then their hands are roaming everywhere, learning the contours of each other’s bodies, stroking and touching and- Before he realises what’s happening he’s tugging at the hem of her top and her fingers are fumbling with his belt buckle.

Fighting the rising lust he pushes her back, taking in her flushed face and wide eyes. “Are you sure?” he whispers harshly, voice raw. Natasha’s only response is to push him firmly down onto his back, her hips straddling his and trailing kisses down his neck and chest.

After that, nothing exists but the two of them for a long time.

They finish the mission, as they always do, but they don’t speak about what happened until they’re back in New York. If Coulson notices any change in their relationship he doesn’t acknowledge it.

When they do finally talk they both agree it was a once-off, never to be repeated.

That resolution doesn’t even last the first night.

Three months and many similar nights later they have to admit their relationship now goes beyond pure friendship. It definitely isn’t plutonic, but they have no idea what it means and no real, concrete idea of what they’re doing. They both agree it doesn’t matter.

It isn’t serious, it’s just a thing, and they’re going to enjoy it while they can. 

_XxX_

They don’t realise just how much they’ve come to care for and rely on each other until New York.

The series of events initiated by Loki takes a toll on the two of them that they could never have foreseen when they were first assigned their roles; Clint off to New Mexico and Tasha to L.A. to deal with Tony Stark. Being separated was nothing new, but it was normally never for such extended periods of time. They spent their last night together, making enough memories to see them through their months apart before leaving with a promise to meet up in L.A. when Clint had finished in the desert.

The meeting never happened. They don’t see each other again until they come face-to-face on the Helicarrier.

After Clint’s ‘cognitive re-calibration’ is successful there’s no time for reunions, for _talking_ , because of the whole ‘invasion of New York’ thing that kind of has to be dealt with first. But once it’s over and Stark’s done his heroics and Natasha’s closed the portal and they’ve all eaten shawarma and Fury assures the two agents that Coulson’s out of surgery and is going to be fine (but could they please not mention him to the others just yet), then and only then can they finally return to Clint’s S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue quarters, closing the door against the outside world and all it represents. Alone at last.

They stand in the middle of the room, still in their torn uniforms, covered in traces of the battle they have fought and survived, just staring at each other, neither able to drag their eyes away. Beneath the blood and grime the scars of the recent mission are clear to both, and not just the physical ones; Loki hasn’t left either of them unscathed.

Clint has lost the only person in the world he’d ever been able to trust completely – himself. His life hadn’t taught him to trust easily but through everything, the circus, his work as a freelance assassin, his time at S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d always been able to rely on himself. _Always_. But Loki has stripped that from him, pulled him apart and shattered any illusion of control he thought he’d had. And he doesn’t know how to come back from that. But the knowledge he has Natasha, seeing her in front of him again, dirty and bloodied and beautiful, gives him a dangerous hope that he will get through this.

For Natasha the conversation with the trickster on the Helicarrier still haunts her; memories of her past she’d managed to lock away behind walls painfully ripped out, raw nerves exposed again. Loki’s threat, that he would make Clint kill her, intimately, in every way he knew she feared, chilled her. Not so much because of the threat itself, but because she realises just how much power Clint has over her, how much she’s given him.  Perhaps what scares her the most is how strangely _fine_ she is with that. The memories hurt but they don’t hurt nearly as much as the thought of losing him.  

They don’t know who moves first, but suddenly they’re in each other’s arm, lips crushed together, the kiss messy and desperate. It’s rough and raw and so _so_ right. They need this; they need each other.

That night is spent relearning each other’s bodies, finding new scars and remembering old ones. Just two broken people trying to fix each other. For a time they forget the world, forget Loki and his actions, forget even themselves.

When Clint comes to they’re in his bed, Tasha lying on her front next him, clothing long discarded and the sheet tangled around her legs. “Ты такая красивая,” he whispers, fingers lightly tracing the curve of her spine, eyes drinking in every inch of her, still unable to believe they are here, that this is real.

She rolls over to look at him, propping herself up on one elbow, red hair falling in tangled curls around her face, green eyes serious. “Clint… I… I was so scared,” she admits. “The thought of losing you…”

“You haven’t lost me, I’m right here,” he tells her, gently stroking her face with the back of his knuckles. She slides her hand over his, turning it over to brush her lips across his palm. His smile fades as memories of Loki’s control return, pervasive and insidious. He knows they’ll never leave him. There’s a dull sickness in stomach as he remembers what he did, how many agents he killed, how close Coulson – the first man to trust him – came to dying. All because of him.

“Clint?” Tasha’s voice brings him back to himself, as it always does.

“I lost myself,” he confesses. “I don’t… I can still feel him. What I did-”

He’s cut off by her lips pressing themselves to his and he lets himself melt into the kiss. “We’ll get through this,” she murmurs against his mouth. “You have me. You’ll always have me. Я тебя люблю.”

Clint draws back slightly, looking Tasha deep in the eyes. “I love you too.”

There’s nothing but honesty in his voice.

These revelations should scare them, _would_ have scared them before but now… Now they don’t. These feelings aren’t new, _this_ isn’t new; all they’re doing is acknowledging what they’ve become to each other, finally putting into words that which they’ve known all along. They are partners. In every sense of the word. Clint might even go as far as saying soul mates, but he doesn’t really believe in that and Tasha would laugh at him for being sentimental. They might not be able to put a label on what they are, but as long as they have each other nothing else matters.

They don’t talk about the future.

There’s no mention of tomorrow; no plans for marriage or kids or family. Those things are for other people, _ordinary_ people, not for master spies and assassins, who can now add ‘Avengers’ to their list of titles. They don’t care; it’s hard to lament a future they were never expecting to have anyway. They understand the reality of the world they live in, of their jobs and their role in keeping it safe. The violence that is a part of their lives is always going to _be_ a part of it, and it’s just a matter of time before violence ends it. They’re only human after all.

So they make the most of what they have, ignoring everything else, ignoring the future. For them it doesn’t exist.  

There is only the now. One moment shining brightly in the darkness.

In the end, that’s all anyone really has. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations from Russian (off ‘teh internez’ so I apologise if inaccurate):
> 
> Mудак – asshole 
> 
> Чёрная вдова – Black Widow (this is what Wikipedia told me)
> 
> Идиот – idiot 
> 
> Котёнок – kitten 
> 
> Ты такая красивая – you are so beautiful 
> 
> Я тебя люблю – I love you


End file.
